Journals

I woke up in a better mood the next morning; still wanting to leave, but with my sense of haste faded to the point where I  could relax a bit and enjoy my surroundings.  I walked over to the small beach next to the campground and sat down in the early morning sun.  It was here that the course of my trip would take a dramatic turn, as I met Greg, an electrician and bike mechanic from London.  He was on holiday for two months, and kept saying how nice it would be to ride a 'bony' in Africa, where he'd be surrounded by animals and beautiful scenery, rather than traffic and drizzle.  His ruminations awoke me to an obvious solution to my transportation woes: with a motorbike, I could head north at my leisure, carrying everything I needed to go far off the beaten path.   As an added bonus, Greg said he would teach me all I needed to know about bike maintenance, so that I could continue on my way once he had to turn back towards home.  We hatched a plan to head back to Maputo, find two motorcycles, gear up for the trip and then hit the road.  Greg and I found a bike shop a few days later and selected our respective wheels--mine a brand-new Honda 125-cc road bike and his a used Suzuki on/off-road model that was formerly a police bike in Swaziland.  Because his choice was second-hand (and therefore already registered in Mozambique), Greg had significantly less paperwork to complete than I did, and he was able to take ownership a full ten days before me.  So, as I set out to file registration papers and purchase insurance, Greg spent four days in Swaziland buying supplies and spares for our trip.   It took another two weeks of running around before we felt prepared enough to set out.  In the meanwhile, we bunkered down at Fatima's--one of several backpacker hostels in central Maputo--and tried not to watch the water boil.  As our tortuous wait continued, we saw a steady stream of young (and often comely) westerners pass through on their way north to the pristine beaches of Inhambane Province.  I was getting antsy and eager to move, but Greg, in what would become a hallmark of our travel buddy relationship, kept reminding me to slow down, since we were on a different schedule as the others and it was foolhardy to begin a mission before the time was absolutely right.  By the time my bike cleared customs, I had the paperwork necessary to drive it right out of the showroom.  But since I had never actually ridden a motorcycle more than a few blocks, I did not yet have the confidence to pull out onto the capital's frenzied roadways.  Instead, I drove it around the block for a good forty-five minutes, familiarizing myself with everything from the brakes and clutch to the turn signals.  In the process, I attracted the attention of a neighborhood kid, who figured out what I was doing and started to mock me in English.  "What are you doing?" he shouted, "That's a little kid's bike, man!"  By now I was gaining in confidence and steadiness, so the next pass around, I started to beep my horn and shout back.    "I'm going to Malawi and Tanzania on this bike, smart ass.  What do you think about that?"   "You'll never even make it to Malawi on that thing," he laughed back in reply.   "Watch me," I said, revving the engine to merge into the late afternoon traffic rush.  "Just you watch me."